TWENTY-TWO 

The next morning, I slept late. The beds were comfortable at the Camelot, and I felt warm and dry and safe. Unfortunately, I also felt achy and uncomfortable from my injuries from yesterday, every time I moved. My neck was stiff, and overnight I had grown a crop of blue-purple bruises splotched over my entire body. I’d left my bottle of painkillers in the bathroom, so I had to make a choice: stay in bed and lie perfectly still, or brave the pain, get up and take more pills. The pills won out.

I looked at myself in the mirror as I ran the water cold. Gorgeous. My left cheekbone was the color of a Stanley plum. Even if I’d had makeup with me, which I didn’t, I doubted anything could cover that up. I filled a cup, then swallowed three pills, and went back to bed. I didn’t have anywhere to be for a while.

When I woke up again a couple hours later, the edges of the pain had softened to a dull throb. My phone showed a text from the visiting nurse taking care of Melanie, Liza, and Caitlyn: All are stable. Conditions about the same. Will keep you informed.

I was still worried about them, but they were getting professional care, better than I could provide myself. And first things first: today I needed to take Dolly to see Dr. Phelps. I could get the details from him about the patients at Castle Grant then and find out when they could be moved.

It was an effort, but I threw off the covers. A half hour later, I was re-dressed in yesterday’s dusty clothes and putting my key in the lock at the Bonaparte House.

Somehow, in the light of day, I wasn’t afraid to go into my own house, as I had been last night. Sleep had given me a better perspective. I could think of no reason I, personally, would be a target for someone. I’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time yesterday. In someone’s way.

And whoever it was behind the attack on me, I was pretty sure they already had what they’d been looking for. Something had been taped under the platform on that dumbwaiter, and it was gone. So there was no reason to think I was still a target. That’s what common sense said anyway.

I checked the alarm system. It was still operational. I would be fine.

I went upstairs and took a shower, then changed into fresh clothes. What color sweater looked best with bruises? In the end, I just picked whatever was on top of the pile in my drawer.

Moderately refreshed, I went back downstairs and made myself an egg on toast and a cup of coffee.

There were a few minutes before it was time to leave to get Dolly, so I went back to work on Gladys’s recipes.

The pile of molded gelatin salad recipes Brenda had been looking at went back into the shoe box. I couldn’t see a time, ever, when I’d make or serve one, so typing any up would be a waste of time. I reached for the cookie recipes and started inputting a molasses gingersnap that looked tasty.

When I’d finished that one, I placed the card at the bottom of the pile. I rose to refill my coffee, and as I did so, I knocked some of the cards and slips of paper to the floor. I blew out a sigh. Bending down was going to hurt.

I leaned forward from the waist, but that required me to put my neck at an odd angle that was too painful to sustain. So I went to my knees and began to gather everything up. Putting the papers into one hand, I used the other to grab onto the edge of the counter and pull myself to a standing position, then deposited the errant documents back on the surface in front of me.

After that effort, head pounding dully, I deserved that second cup of coffee more than ever and went to make it.

When I returned to the project, I began sorting again. It was only “Wild Game” and “Miscellaneous” that had fallen, and those hadn’t been large piles, so it was quick work. When I got to the envelope, the one marked “Formica Cleaner,” I realized that the recipe must have fallen out, because the envelope was empty, and there had been something inside when I first looked at it a few days ago. Brenda had asked for a copy of that one for her own counters. I set the envelope aside until the contents turned up.

But they didn’t. I’d finished sorting everything into its proper pile.

Which meant I must have missed a fallen paper.

Which meant I was going to have to get down on my hands and knees again.

Honestly, if it had been mine, not Gladys’s, I might have just let it go, to be found at some later date when the floor was cleaned. But it wasn’t mine. So down to the floor I went. It hurt just as much this time as it had the first.

I finally located the paper, sticking partly out from under a movable stainless steel cart. Good thing it hadn’t gone any farther underneath. It might have taken me a long time to find it.

Recipe in hand, I straightened. A fresh jolt of pain shot through me, from my neck out through my shoulders. Taking a few deep breaths helped somewhat. I went back to my seat and laid the recipe on the counter.

After all that trouble, I was curious. What was in Formica cleaner anyway? I wondered what kind of cleaners were commercially available in the fifties and sixties. Maybe everybody made their own, or just used soap and water.

The paper was yellowed, folded into a more or less symmetrical square. The edges were soft, not quite frayed, but clearly worn. I undid the first fold. If the paper turned out to be too brittle, I would just put it back and have to remain curious. I wouldn’t want to damage it.

But I managed to keep it intact as I undid the second fold and set the document down.

I was expecting the first ingredient to be water, or a soap of some kind. What I wasn’t expecting was to see the word “mayonnaise” followed by the word “ketchup.” Mayonnaise, well, maybe. That stuff was used for lots of nonfood things, including hair conditioner, though I’d never tried it. But ketchup for countertops? No way.

I scanned through the rest of the ingredients, then read the title, which I hadn’t done before.

This was not a recipe for a cleaner.

This was a recipe for Thousand Island dressing. It couldn’t be anything else. And it was called Sophias Sauce, no apostrophe, just like Franco had told me. There was a second sheet of paper, folded behind the first.

August 3, 1907

Dearest Phoebe,

Here is the recipe I told you about, the one I received from Mrs. Sophia LaLonde. I hope you will enjoy it.

Fondly,

May Irwin

May Irwin. I knew that name, though I couldn’t have said how. I opened an Internet browser and looked her up.

May had been a vaudeville actress, famous for singing songs that would not be considered appropriate today. She was also a composer, and engaged in the first kiss ever filmed, an affair that apparently went on for several minutes at the behest of Thomas Edison.

And May had been a resident of the Thousand Islands, having built a large summer house on Club Island, and later having bought a farm on the mainland near the village of Clayton.

I looked at the date of the letter: 1907. That was the date that Franco had said was on his recipe.

I was willing to bet that May Irwin had written his recipe as well, though to whom we’d never know. The distinctive missing apostrophe, as well as the list of ingredients that I know I’d tasted that night at Franco’s, including the lemon juice and the Worcestershire sauce, made me certain this was the same recipe.

I drew a deep breath. Now what? There was a piece of culinary history here in my hot little hand. The question was, what to do with it? It was worth something to somebody, that was for sure. And no one knew about it. Because if they did, it would already be gone.

I pulled out my cell phone. “Kim? Sorry to call you so early.” The paper vibrated. My hand was shaking a little.

Kim laughed. “Georgie, we keep accountant hours here, not restaurant hours. What’s up?”

“Do you have a safe? I have something I need to keep, well, safe, for a day or two.”

“Bring it in,” she said. “Of course we have a safe. And it’s wired into the alarm system.”

“I’ll be there within half an hour. And thanks.” I clicked off.

I had a couple more phone calls to make, but those would have to wait until later. It was time to go pick up Dolly.